


Constellation

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [315]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celegorm comes...bearing gifts?, Gen, Mithrim Christmas, Weapons, yes he does
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Celegorm was making his way towards the corner with a purposeful step. Gwindor was surprised—Celegorm was not unfriendly, and Gwindor did not dislike him, but they rarely spoke outside the sickroom. Now, however, Celegorm greeted him with a nod and a grin.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Gwindor, Celegorm | Turcafinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Gelmir of Nargothrond & Gwindor, Gwindor & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [315]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Constellation

**Author's Note:**

> I promise--I really do promise--that exciting narrative developments are coming soon. Thank you for all the love.

Gwindor’s heart seized in his chest when Russandol took his place at the table, nodding his thanks to the resounding cheer.

No—not Russandol. This was his sad, red boy no longer: this was Maedhros, now, if still frail and ghostly in the eyes of those who’d known him in the past.

The ragged hair was, if not yet lustrous, clean and trimmed and waving over his brow. The shirt, the belted trousers, the boots on his feet…none looked out of place beside their companions in Mithrim.

Gwindor had not been present for the dressing, but he had been waiting in the hall outside when they exited the bedchamber. Celegorm helped his brother on one side; Fingon on the other.

Earlier still, Gwindor had seen Russandol’s hair, soft and neat. He learned that Estrela had cut it.

“ _Quite the gentleman again, eh_?” he had said, and Russandol had blushed. Whether he was happy or sorry, proud or shamed, his cheeks pinked as readily as a child’s. It was only when he was angry, or frightened, or wrenched by pain that the whole of his face went milky white under the gold-dusted freckles.

Since Gwindor had been privy to the whole evolution—hair and clothes and the careful steps down the hallway—why was he so stricken as the dinner began? Why was _this_ the moment in which Russandol died quietly?

 _Because he is their leader. He’d meant to be. He’s been hiding from it, and remembering, now_.

So Gwindor told himself. It was a better explanation than the private one he knew, deep in his heart, to be true.

(He did not particularly want to think of the many moments when Gelmir had changed in a passing instant. Once Gelmir had woken and seemed entirely like a little boy rather than a baby. Once Gwindor had seen him from afar, down the hill from what was then their house, looking tall enough to be a stranger.)

(This was like that.)

It was, of course, an undecided question—how long Russandol or Maedhros or whoever he was at this feast, would bear up under the blurred sound of laughter and swarming sight of many friends at once. Gwindor knew it wasn’t his place to hover, and so he made himself useful in other ways; he helped to clear away the table, scrub a dozen platters, and only after he had had been shooed twice from the kitchen did he accept a mug of hot cider, spiked with rum and orange, to warm his full belly.

He found a suitable corner and stood in it. Russandol was still seated, with Frog beside him. A sign that he was content, or weary? The children were a refuge for him, likely because the happiest times of his life had been spent raising children as naught but a lad himself.

Gwindor was sorry, for a thousandth time, that he had ever held harshly such a gentle love.

In his reverie, he noticed too late that Celegorm was making his way towards the corner with a purposeful step. Gwindor was surprised—Celegorm was not unfriendly, and Gwindor did not dislike him, but they rarely spoke outside the sickroom. Now, however, Celegorm greeted him with a nod and a grin.

“Is that cider?”

“And a little more,” said Gwindor.

Celegorm wrinkled his nose. “Ach. I hate the taste of grog.” He wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve, ungracefully, then glanced down at Huan, who had found a scrap of ham on the floor. “Huan’s eaten well today.”

“It’s a dog’s day, Christmas,” Gwindor agreed.

“He don’t know not to be happy,” said Celegorm. “Long as he has us all about him.”

“Ah,” said Gwindor. His eyes stung, suddenly. “But he seems a wise fellow. I feel as if I know him a little, now. What do you suppose he’d say, if he could talk?”

“He’d run me into the ground,” said Celegorm softly, but with a smile twitching at one corner of his mouth, which had drooped out of its grin in somber thought. “He’d ruin all my successes with tales of my _attempts_.”

Gwindor swallowed another mouthful of his drink. “But dogs are loyal,” he said.

Celegorm hummed in agreement. Then he said, “Since you haven’t a dog yourself, you’ll be needing some kind of protection, won’t you?”

Gwindor didn’t take his meaning. “Are we under attack?”

“Not at present.” Celegorm fumbled in his coat pocket, hissed with pain, and came up with a felt-wrapped bundle. “Careful. Point of one caught my thumb. Tricky little things.”

The tricky things were three shining stars, with edges sharp as razors. The opposite edge of each point was blunted—to hold them by, Gwindor supposed, though he’d never seen the like. He turned them carefully in his fingers. Each was about the size of his palm.

“Curufin made ‘em. We lost a few we couldn’t retrieve—a long while ago, now.”

“I…” It was a gift. Gwindor had not expected anything, least of all from one of Russandol’s brothers, but he scolded himself for his dullness. _Thank him, you fool, whether you can use it or not_. Perhaps Celegorm hadn’t noticed the twisted shoulder. “Thank you. These are remarkable.”

“Oh, Curufin spins ‘em off the forge without much trouble. He’s the best smith alive, I daresay. Now listen, Gwindor, I know you’ve a bad shoulder. But you can learn to throw with the other arm, can’t you? I’ve seen you handling tools with both hands.”

He was young, Gwindor remembered. Young and afraid for his brother. There was an instant—perhaps nothing more than a passing quaver in his voice—where Gwindor felt him change from man to boy.

“I’ve had time,” Gwindor said, wrapping the blades in their felt again. “Time to learn, and practice. Shoulder never healed—it was injured, getting on six years ago.”

“What was done to you,” Celegorm said, low and dreadful, “And to Estrela…we shan’t forget it, either. We Feanorians.”

That name was cut in Russandol’s blood. It wasn’t the talisman of strength its owners seemed to think it. But Gwindor nodded.

“Thank you,” he said again. “Thank you kindly.”

Celegorm cleared his throat. His hand went back down in his pocket. “There’s a knife, too,” he said. He held it out for Gwindor to take. Gwindor put the throwing stars in his own coat, gingerly, and Celegorm held the mug of cider while Gwindor examined the knife. He could see the lad shifting from one foot to another, ready to be off.

 _Doesn’t like to be known_ , thought Gwindor, with a rush of sympathy.

“I’ll take these to stow,” he said, reclaiming his mug. “They’ll do me just fine, but I don’t want the children finding them. You get back to your brother; I’m sure he’ll have need of you.”

That was the best gift _he_ could give, and Celegorm received it gladly.


End file.
